


Home.

by WinterTheWriter



Series: The Oncoming Slut [5]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Death, Mentions of familial death, No humor in this one folks, Post-Spyfall, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, Sort Of, The Doctor in general is not doing great, ish, sex as coping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 08:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22153222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterTheWriter/pseuds/WinterTheWriter
Summary: The Doctor can never go home. But she can go to Yaz.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (mentioned), The Doctor/Yasmin Khan, Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Series: The Oncoming Slut [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1263446
Comments: 2
Kudos: 73





	Home.

**Author's Note:**

> hello folks this is loosely in my Oncoming Slut series so you do not need to read those stories to understand this one. basically ya got yaz who is fucked up from almost dying and the doctor who is fucked up from seeing gallifrey and what i did is i mushed them together real tight and then i made them both hurt more because there's no light in my soul. 
> 
> enjoy!

“Doctor.” 

The name pierces the silence of the console room, sudden and sharp, and the Doctor hides a flinch. She keeps her back to the source and stares intently at the buttons in front of her. How long has she been here? How long has Yaz been calling for her? 

“/Doctor/,” Yaz repeats, firmer this time. The Doctor squeezes her eyes shut tightly. Faintly, her hands tremble where they tightly clutch the console’s edge. Behind her eyelids she sees Gallifrey, her home, and she smells the rotten flesh of her people, her friends and relatives and /children/, and her children’s children, all gone. It’s all gone. Again. 

A small, strong hand grabs her elbow and turns her around. Reluctantly, she opens her eyes to meet Yaz’s wet ones. She smells of a crying human, all dampness and sweat and fear and despair, bundled unfairly together into this woman she’s starting to need. More than anything, the Doctor wants to comfort her. 

More than anything, the Doctor wants to go home. 

She closes her eyes again, leans back against the console. Crosses her arms across her chest. /Don’t shut her out/, that voice in her head says. /They leave when you shut them out/. Opening her eyes is a physical and mental feat, but it’s slightly mollified by the relief it puts on Yaz’s face. 

“You saved us,” Yaz says softly, rubbing a gentle hand up and down the Doctor’s upper arm. “Even when we had no hope, you saved us. Saved me. D’you have any idea how /scared/ I was, in that realm?” Her voice cracks on “scared,” but she doesn’t look away, doesn’t make any move to hide the emotion in her eyes. “I really thought I was going to die, Doctor. I really…really did.” 

“I would never let that happen,” the Doctor responds, but it’s weak and flat even to her own ears. Oh, if she had a nickel for all that’s happened without her let. 

Something on her face must shut down visibly, because Yaz changes subjects. She steps closer into the Doctor’s space, trapping her against the console in a way reminiscent of a much happier memory, a much better time. “Who was he?” she whispers, so earnest in her curiosity. Both of her hands are on both of the Doctor’s arms now, so warm and real. “The Master. You said he was an old friend, but…” Yaz trails off, furrowing her brows. “There was more there.” 

A quick smile tugs at the Doctor’s lips. Yaz is so brilliant. Always, she sees what no one else does, and more than that she dares to do something about it. But how could the Doctor answer her? Theoretically, of course this is an easy task - simply open her mouth and tell the truth. Tell Yaz how they used to be married, so very long ago, back when the Master wasn’t yet the Master at all and they were both still capable of so much hope. Yaz would understand. But - the thought alone makes bile burn at the back of the Doctor’s throat. Her eyes prick wetly, and her hearts seem to sag with her shoulders, breaking all the way. 

Too much. It’s all too much. 

To be known is to be understood. And those who understand the Doctor, well. Those people run. 

The Doctor lifts her hand and strokes the soft give of Yaz’s cheek, leaning forward enough to bump their noses together. “I’m sorry you were scared,” she whispers into the air between them. “You were so brave, though, Yaz. So very, very brave. But you don’t have to be anymore, alright? We’re…you’re safe, now. You’re safe with me.” And the Doctor pulls back just in time to watch the tidal wave of grief crash over her favorite human, the sobs that break so violently through her until she’s shaking in the Doctor’s arms. 

This she can do. 

“Let me take care of you,” she whispers into Yaz’s hair, kissing it reverently when she feels her nod in return. She can do this. She wants to— she /needs/ to do this. After all Yaz has been through because of her, because of /him/, the Doctor owes her this much. 

And gods, could she herself use the reminder of her own beating hearts. 

With the strength she rarely shows her humans, the Doctor sweeps Yaz into a bridal carry and walks her to her bedroom, laying her on the soft mattress. She strokes damp strands of hair off Yaz’s forehead and smiles weakly down at her. “I’m going to get a cloth to clean your face, alright?” Amidst her hiccups and slowing hitches of breath, Yaz nods back and even hazards a trembling smile in return. 

The Doctor comes back a moment later with the wet cloth and sweeps it across Yaz’s cheeks, her forehead, under her nose and chin. The coolness must feel heavenly because the sigh she gets for her efforts certainly is. Eyes now closed with a certain sort of peace, Yaz could almost be mistaken for the sleeping.

Or for the dead. 

No sooner has the comparison forced its way into the Doctor’s mind that she throws the cloth across the room and presses their lips together in a slow, desperate kiss laden with everything she doesn’t yet know how to say. Yaz moans brokenly into it, tangling her fingers through the Doctor’s hair, but the Doctor gently takes those hands and pins them to her side. “You’re done doin’ the work, Yasmin Khan,” she murmurs, nipping Yaz’s supple lower lip as she does. 

That’s a much better excuse than the Doctor admitting to feeling like a cracked windshield - held together now simply by habit alone, but tap on the glass…

The arch of Yaz’s neck is gorgeous as the Doctor kisses her way down it. She’s radiant when the Doctor strips her of her clothes, all silently soft smiles and those big, trusting eyes. The Doctor sucks one peaked nipple into her mouth, lolling her tongue in tight circles around it as she cups her other breast, just to touch. Yaz whines out her name and hitches her hips upwards, groaning in relief when the Doctor presses her thigh between Yaz’s. Even through their clothes the heat of her sex is scalding. It scrambles the Doctor’s mind, makes her nip the sensitive skin in her mouth before sucking it into a bruise. 

“/Fuck/,” Yaz pants, back arching off the mattress. Her hands, though, stay obediently at her sides, clenching mindlessly at the duvet beneath them. The Doctor hums her approval and lavishes her other breast with the same attention. She, herself, is fully dressed, but for once she intends to keep it that way.   
For the good of them both, this is all about Yaz. When the Doctor finally kisses and sucks down that toned stomach, trailing a teasing lick from bellybutton to the waistline of her trousers, Yaz is trembling tightly with tension, hips helpless as they grind her clit against the Doctor’s thigh. The Doctor yanks her trousers and panties down and off, paying where they fall no mind as she nudges those endless legs further apart. Yaz’s cunt is glistening. The scant hairs on her mound shine with wet, as do her perfect inner thighs. Something primal makes the Doctor lean down and inhale deeply, the exhale hissing through her gritted teeth at the resulting lust that slams into her. 

“Doctor, /please/,” Yaz whispers. She breaks their rule just once, stroking her thumb across the Doctor’s lower lip and propping herself up to look at her properly. “I /need/ you.” Oh, how mutual that feeling is. 

“You have me.” Her response is gruff, voice gravelly and lower with this newfound possessive desire. Even as it makes her own sex throb in her trousers, her own wetness stick to her skin, it’s as though every urge in her body has been redirected to this woman below her. She is all that matters. She is the conduit for all the scant good the Doctor is still capable of feeling. 

It’s not another moment before she’s closing her mouth hotly around Yaz’s clit, sucking in strong, even, slow slurps. The lewdness of it makes both of them moan. Yaz desperately tries to spread her legs even wider, bending them at the knees to plant her feet and rock as close as possible to the wet tongue the Doctor is worshiping her with. Sweet flavor bursts across the Doctor’s palate as she licks broad strokes up and down her cunt, dipping into the entrance and fucking in as deep as she can. Yaz is an orchestra of pleasure. Mewls and moans and whimpers and cries, such a better kind of crying, as she thrashes in vain for more. The Doctor grasps her thighs tightly and pushes them back more, forcing her to stretch and spread under her greedy mouth. 

This. This is everything. 

No fire burns here - only passion and pleasure. No smell of rot exists - only sex and musk. Only Yaz and the Doctor. 

With a rough moan, the Doctor refocuses on Yaz’s clit, flicking her tongue across the bud in rapid beats of four, until her rhythm is so fast there isn’t a beat at all. Yaz’s cries climb louder and louder. The duvet shifts and scratches under the Doctor as Yaz yanks at it for all its worth. Her fingers climb up around Yaz’s thighs to her torso, scratching her abdomen before both hands cup Yaz’s breasts. She rolls each nipple between her fingers, eagerly follows the instinctive cants of her hips as she refuses to let up on her punishing rhythm. It’s too much, but she knows it’s just right. She knows. 

Yaz crescendos with a deafening yell, whole body taut and arched as it helplessly shakes through her orgasm, the Doctor holding her all the while. 

~

“I’m happy to return the favor, y’know,” Yaz points out coyly. They’re on their sides facing each other now, Yaz comfortably nude and the Doctor only without her shoes, coat, and suspenders. Yaz strokes gently through the Doctor’s hair, making her response barely a sigh of sound.   
“This was about you, Yaz,” she mumbles. The Doctor smiles softly at her, unable to feel envy towards her and the innocence she still has when it’s so very endearing. “I am perfectly satisfied.” 

Yaz rolls her eyes with a smile like she doesn’t quite believe that, but she lets it drop. She inches closer to the Doctor who obligingly moves her arm for Yaz to use as a pillow. The Doctor’s other hand pets Yaz’s bare hip and side. They’re silent for a few moments, staring at each other in a way that’s not quite gazing, but hard to be described as anything else. So much is unspoken between them. So much will remain that way. Oh, Yaz is beautiful. The Doctor closes her eyes against it, and together they rest for a few moments more. And then…

“Doctor?”

“Hmm?” 

“…I love you.” Those three words. Yaz says them firmly, but there’s a weakness behind them, an insecurity. That vulnerability is so achingly human the Doctor has to squeeze her eyes shut even tighter before she can open them. The sight she meets is a soft, tentative smile on one of the most gorgeous faces in the universe, paired with honey brown eyes that watch her patiently, hopefully. 

“Oh Yaz,” the Doctor whispers, shifting them even closer until their foreheads are pressed together. They both close their eyes now. “Yaz,” she repeats, stroking every bit of skin she can, every inch like intimacy alone can prevent the inevitable that’s always, always lurking on the horizon. The Doctor swallows thickly. Gallifrey dances burned and ruined behind her eyelids. “You…you are my gravity, Yaz, d’y’know that?” 

It’s a rhetorical question and goes appropriately unanswered, but the Doctor knows it wasn’t enough. She doesn’t need to open her eyes to see the hope die in Yaz’s; she feels it just the same in herself. 

She knows it wasn’t enough, but for now, at least, the Doctor simply has nothing else to give.


End file.
